Reading so many fawning reviews of R.E.M.'s Accelerate, due in stores tomorrow, made me question my own tepid reaction to the disc. Am I missing something? Am I expecting too much? Am I too critical? I'll admit that despite expressing my own ambivalence with the album, I've played little other than it and that great new Big Dipper anthology in the past two weeks. Of course, that's as much a factor of wanting even mediocre music from a favorite band when the alternative is actually having the time to seek out something new and rewarding (speaking only of the R.E.M. here; the Big Dipper is giddily transcendent. More on that next week).

The naysayers are lining up, however, giving some support to my thoughts about the ultimately disappointment the disc cultivates. Most telling is this post from (the other) Bill Wyman. Intrigued by the familiarity of the plaudits being heaped on Accelerate, he takes a tour through Rolling Stone's archives. All of those disappointing albums over the past decade, you know, the ones against which this is called a return to form? I won't steal Wyman's thunder, but suffice to say, as he does, "At this point, the implication is clear: As far as Rolling Stone is concerned, the band’s best work is ahead of it."

Idolator also weighs in, highlighting some of the purple prose being inked over the disc at various outlets. These songs, from a band "that has [its] fighting spirit back," a band whose "career isn't over yet," "cast an inescapable shadow."

All that said, I plan to attempt to hear it with fresh ears when I actually go to a store and pay cash for a compact disc (call me old fashioned) and slip the real thing into the player for the first time.

Labels: criticism, music, R.E.M.

Lists are meant to generate discussion, of course, and no list that seeks to represent each of the last 25 years with one indie-rock album could hope to be definitive. That said, the list featured on Entertainment Weekly's web site today, "The Indie Rock 25," is downright awful. There are some obvious picks, but much of it either selects albums that are far from the best/most interesting of the given year or are not the best album from the chosen act, which shows how artificial such an exercise can be.

Then again, when you set constraints like these, how can you win?

1. Only one album may represent each year.
2. All the bands had to have been signed to an independent label for the given album.
3. The term ''band'' must be taken literally.

This year's pick, Radiohead's In Rainbows, was an obvious choice. Such lists are tailor made to recognize the fact that a band like this has left its major-label home for indie-land, so it's no surprise, and one that's hard to argue. So is Spoon's Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, the pick for 2007, or Boys and Girls in America from the Hold Steady, the 2006 pick. From there, however, things occasionally go off the rails as often as not.

Bright Eyes in 2005, a year with Okkervil River, Antony and the Johnsons and Sufjan Stevens all making critically acclaimed and well-received discs? Please. And this has little to do with my inability to comprehend Connor Oberst's appeal, and more to do with the fact that he had made his impact long before and, with this tepid disc, came nowhere near the artistic heights of the aforementioned discs. Arcade Fire in 2004 makes sense, but again, the White Stripes' Elephant in 2003 is a strangely out-of-touch pick. It's really White Blood Cells or nothing for this group. That spot, for 2001, goes instead to the Shins, whose album that year, Oh, Inverted World, may have included the future hit "New Slang," but which didn't make a dent in the public consciousness the way it's follow-up, Chutes Too Narrow did in, you guessed it, 2003.

The rest of the list can be split into three groups: no brainers (1998's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel or 1994's Bee Thousand from Guided by Voices) miscast (Sleater-Kinney's relatively underwhelming The Hot Rock in 1999 as opposed to 1997's absolutely scorching Dig Me Out or the Smiths' Meat is Murder instead of the later, superior The Queen is Dead) and just plain wrong (no matter their parsing of things, My Bloody Valentine and the Pixies were major label bands on their respective releases, UK releases to the contrary).

The compilers seem to know all this, spending more time in each write up explaining why better and more appropriate albums were not picked than they do extolling the virtues of those that were. Still, the list does what it should, sparking the desire in fans to pull out old albums, listen to great music and discuss the merits.

Labels: criticism, lists, music

I'm not sure how prestigious this is given that I've never heard of it before, but the Story Prize has been awarded to Jim Shepard for his short story collection, Like You'd Understand, Anyway. The prize includes a $20,000 cash award, which is a nice little boost for a great writer who doesn't sell a lot of books. Oh, and he received an engraved silver bowl, too.

It's certainly a worthy book, an adventurous and ambitious collection that was among the best books I read in 2007. In my Monday Interview with Shepard in December, we talked about his stories, and I noted that they seemed like the result of challenges he had issued to himself.

"I think they are challenges to myself -- that's a nice way of putting it -- nearly always in terms of stretching the capacities of my empathetic imagination," he said. Going on to talk about a story in his previous collection, Love and Hydrogen, he continued, "A story narrated by John Ashcroft began with my fulminating about yet another one of his inconceivably bad decisions as attorney general, for example, and then asking myself, ‘How does he do something like that, and live with himself?’ And then asking myself the question more seriously, and deciding that I would read all about him and try to find out."

The Story Prize itself is a bit of a mystery. Information about its provenance on its web site states that it is "an annual book award honoring the author of an outstanding collection of short fiction with a $20,000 cash award. Each of two runners-up will receive $5,000. Eligible books must be written in English and first published in the United States during a calendar year."

Past winners are Edwidge Danticat in 2004 for The Dew Breaker, Patrick O'Keeffe in 2005 for The Hill Road and Mary Gordon in 2006 for The Stories of Mary Gordon.

There is some credibility behind the effort, however. Shepard was up against Tessa Hadley's Sunstroke and Other Stories and Vincent Lam's Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures, while the contest was judged by author and critic David Gates, librarian Patricia Groh and editor and poet Meghan O'Rourke.

Labels: books, criticism

Neutral Milk Hotel's fantastic sophomore outing and swansong, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, came out 10 years ago this month, and the already heavily analyzed album is receiving even more publicity, praise and analysis. Slate comes up with most interesting analogy, referring to reclusive NMH leader Jeff Magnum as "the Salinger of Indie Rock" in a piece that explores Magnum's decision to drop out and refuse to follow his critical darling with more music.

Pitchfork has the most comprehensive coverage I've seen, with Mike McGonigal's 1997 cover interview from the late lamented Puncture, a piece that is notable for coming just before the album's release and thus before the overwhelming critical and fan-based response that likely had the unintended effect of pushing Magnum underground. I know I read the piece as a Puncture fan who liked but didn't love NMH's On Avery Island, but I didn't recall much of this exchange. Then again, until reading the 33 1/3 series book on the album by Kim Cooper, I had no recollection that the album is largely based on Magnum's reading of the diary of Anne Frank. I certainly never got that sense from the album itself, though I've long been someone who hears lyrics as ancillary to music rather than the other way around, and often am surprised at the content of songs long after everyone else has figured them out simply because I finally got around to reading along or paying closer attention.

The Pitchfork package also links to the site's 2002 interview with Magnum, his first in years at the time and last that I'm aware of, as well as a piece that solicits comments about the album from a handful of indie artists that, aside from the guy behind Caribou, I've not heard much from.

Magnum still surfaces from time to time; McGonigal convinced the musician to contribute tracks from his collection of 78s to a CD that will accompany the forthcoming issue of his magazine, Yeti, curiosity about which was enough to get me to part with $12. What he won't do, it seems, is give fans what they really want, which is a true follow up. Good for him. How could compete, and why would he/we want it to?

Labels: criticism, music

The Morning News Tournament of Books is back, with 16 books set to square off bracket-style starting March 7.

There is an honest-to-God crime fiction novel among the picks, though I guarantee Laura Lippman's fine novel, What the Dead Know, will be tagged with the phrase "transcends the genre."

Who will win? My money is on National Book Award winner Denis Johnson. I haven't waded through his tome yet, but plan to the next time I have several days of uninterrupted reading time ahead of me... or after my sons graduate high school, whichever comes first.

I've read four of this year's picks thus far, and in addition to Lippman's gripping read, I can attest that Joshua Ferris's book is good but not a book of the year contender, Ian McEwan's book was perfectly fine but far from perfect, and Jonathan Lethem's book was a dreadful stumble by an otherwise wildly talented writer.

The tournament is fairly simple. Books are paired up in brackets, with a different judge for each pairing. The judge picks a winner, and that book moves on until there is only one. The three previous winners are David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, Ali Smith’s The Accidental and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

This year's contenders are:

Run by Ann Patchett
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson
Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris
Petropolis by Anya Ulinich
Ovenman by Jeff Parker
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz
You Don't Love Me Yet by Jonathan Lethem
New England White by Stephen L. Carter
Remainder by Tom McCarthy
The Shadow Catcher by Marianne Wiggins
The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño
Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name by Vendela Vida
Shining at the Bottom of the Sea by Stephen Marche
What the Dead Know by Laura Lippman
An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England by Brock Clarke

Labels: books, criticism

The Village Voice's 2007 Pazz and Jop music critics poll results have been posted, and LCD Soundsystem's Sound of Silver edged out Radiohead's In Rainbows as top album of the year. I'm unmoved by the pick -- and come to think of it, by the disc itself -- wondering if there isn't a lemming like bit of me-tooism at play. I believe in the wisdom of crowds, and know that there surely must be something there worth the accolades, but what little time I've spent with the album left me cold.

My ballot can be found here. No surprises to be had for TIRBD readers, as my top 10 mirrors the one I posted here in December. I did include some favorite tracks when asked to list the year's top singles, though I don't have any idea if any were actually singles (or truly if such a thing even exists at this point). The overall singles list was heartening; the singles charts in general are so hip hop-centric that one wonders if anyone else listens to anything beyond that. Here, there is plenty of hip hop, but it is leavened by the White Stripes, Shins, Spoon and others.

My album list, save for Radiohead and the National, doesn't jibe as well with the masses, as most of my picks landed somewhere in the 40-60 range. The worst showing, no surprise, was Glenn Mercer's Wheels in Motion, which fell all the way to 389. Oh well, that's everyone else's loss.

I haven't spent much time beyond the lists, but there is plenty of fodder to wade through in the form of essays, voter comments and more. The snark has already begun elsewhere, but I'll take a pass. It's all in the name of helping people to learn about things they might have missed and offering greater context to enhance the enjoyment of what they have. Sounds like a worthy endeavor to me.

By the way, my same ballot, give or take a single or two, was submitted to the Idolator Pop '07 Poll (it was released Jan. 14, but I was at home with a new baby and wasn't on the web so completely missed it until now). The lists were similar, though this one unsurprisingly skews more indie/hipster than the Voice's. On these two and more, I chuckle about the inclusion of Miranda Lambert's album as the lone country entry in the upper reaches. Whatever it was she did to be the token country artist, Lambert should cherish it. Why, this is probably almost as lucrative as a story on NPR in terms of juicing a few thousand extra moved units.

Labels: criticism, music

OK, Madonna I get. the rest of them? Please.

The 2007 class of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was announced last week, and it was as disappointing as one would expect given the options. When the nominees were announced in September, I prognosticated the results.

I was three for five, correctly forecasting Madonna, the Dave Clark Five and Leonard Cohen. My misses are puzzling. How could the Beastie Boys not make it, or Afrika Bambaataa, while a second oldies act like the Ventures did? I would imagine the Beasties, to their credit, are seen as too young to make it, perhaps, but Bambaataa should have appealed to voters' sense of inclusion and diversity. Instead, they went for the popular-in-their-time but artistically less significant Ventures, who trod similar ground -- albeit in less pioneering fashion -- as Duane Eddy, who is already in the hall.

That leaves John Mellencamp. He's clearly a commercial success, and at times he was a critical success as well. American Fool, Uh-huh and Scarecrow were as good as any three albums made by a male solo artist in the early '80s, save for his closest musical forefather, Bruce Springsteen, whose The River, Nebraska and Born in the U.S.A. are hard to top. But people aren't inducted into the hall of fame for a handful of really good albums -- at least, they shouldn't be. They should be inducted for long, continually challenging and creative careers, or for short bursts that are simply so revolutionary that they can't be denied. Mellencamp has enjoyed a long career, but it would be hard to argue that it has been anything more than a commercially popular artist for much of it.

As I wrote in September, it's going to be a long, dry period until the 2020s when the first commercially successful grunge and rock acts become eligible. Maybe the hall will take that time to deal with some glaring omissions and ignore the artistically bankrupt pap that will become eligible in the interim. Yeah, right.

Labels: criticism, music

On the occasion of writing my 100th post over at My Impression Now ("Glad Girls" got the honor), I thought I'd check back in to see how my peers in the catablog business are faring. When I last wrote about this in July, there were a few of the 23 known single artist song-by-song blogs going great guns, a few that already had fallen by the wayside and several of us in the middle writing when we had the chance.

Today, things are slower still. Only 10 of the 23 are active, mine included, while at least three have closed up shop permanently and the other 10 haven't published in a few months. I certainly don't judge; it's a challenge to come up with something new to say, and you certainly do so -- unless you're writing about Pearl Jam or R.E.M. -- for a very small, albeit dedicated audience.

I caught a second wind with my Guided by Voices blog in November, nearly doubling my output over the previous months to finally get to 100 on Monday. Of course, that leaves me with about 1,100 to go (more once Robert Pollard realizes he hasn't released anything in a couple of months and graces us with more music). It's a daunting task, but I have benefited as a fan by taking it on, for it makes me think about why I like or dislike the songs, and that analysis can deepen those feelings and make me appreciate the work all the more.

So here, as the year is drawing to a close, is a report on the known catablogs, all created since May when Matthew Perpetua got the ball rolling with his still excellent R.E.M. blog, Popsongs 07.

R.I.P.
Robynsongs - Robyn Hitchcok
Chrome Canyons - Wilco
Spring, Sprang, Sprung - T-Pain

M.I.A. (including month of last post)
All My Little Words - Magnetic Fields: June
Blursongs - Blur: August
Emotional Karaoke - Mountain Goats : July
Fridgebuzz/Radiostutters - Radiohead: October
Hyper-ballads - Bjork: July
More Words About Buildings and Songs - Talking Heads: July
Paraguay and Laos - Bluetones: August
Separated Out - Marillion: August
Ten Thousand Lies - Nine Inch Nails: June
So Misunderstood - Wilco: September

Still Going Strong
Crimes on Paper - Self
Fragments of a Cale Season - John Cale
I Can't Sing It Strong Enough - Pavement
More Than Ten - Pearl Jam
Music from a Bachelor's Den - Pulp
My Impression Now - Guided by Voices
One Imaginary Blog - Cure
Popsongs 07 - R.E.M.
Too Many Words - Low
Solar Prestige a Gammon - Elton John (69-77)

Labels: criticism, music, My Impession Now

OK, I'll admit it: I like the music of white guys. If they're bookish, or a bit too clever for their own good or back after a long layoff, so much the better. I've tried for diversity, tried to broaden my horizons, but my time is limited these days, so I seek out the aural equivalent of comfort food. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'll peruse all of the dozens of other lists out there, look for some commonalities and continue to build my "to-be-heard" list so that when I do someday get some time, I'll know what to see out.

In the meantime, if smart white guys with guitars are your thing, you could do worse than to check out these 25 discs. As always, you get a sort of annotated top 10, a second 10, another handful and some comments about those that missed.

Overall, it felt like a good year for music. I'll be curious to see who tops the Idolator and Village Voice polls, because nothing really struck me as a runaway obvious best-album choice for the masses. My pick was easy, but I doubt Joe Henry cracks the top 25 most anywhere else. Sure, critics like to single out things that don't get airplay -- when they're not busy ironically touting mainstream pap because it's subversively derivative... or whatever -- but not white former alt-country also-rans on the edge of 50 who make more money producing than performing. That's fine: Joe can be my little secret.

For me, 2007 was the year of the welcome return. Henry was back after several years away from his solo career while producing, while Nick Lowe also returned after a long layoff. Seth Tiven, Dumptruck frontman, issued his first solo album this year, the great Solitude, after a few years away as well. Then there's Glenn Mercer, the former Feelies frontman, who came back after nine years away from recording and more than 15 years since the Feelies hung it up. Add to that nice discs by Ian Hunter, John Fogerty and Dinosaur Jr., and it's like the old folks home ran out of room and sent a bunch of 'em to the recording studio to sleep on cots.

OK, enough pontification. On to the list.

Joe Henry – Civilians
Any time Joe Henry enters the studio, you ought to clear a spot in your top 10 list. When he does so with a batch of his own songs, there’s little point in considering anything else for the top spot. With Civilians, Henry may well have crafted his best disc, one that seems a culmination of every twist, turn and blind alley of his career without rehashing any of it. He surrounds himself with different players each time out, and no two albums sound alike. Despite that, he has created an inimitable, yet readily identifiable sound of his own, and Civilians is a shining example of that excellence.
web site
Metacritic
TIRBD Monday Interview
"Time is a Lion" MP3

Andrew Bird – Armchair Apocrypha
Andrew Bird’s music is a strange amalgam of old-time string band, soul, rock, folk and classical elements that mesh to create something unique and readily identifiable. On Armchair Apocrypha, Bird offers the best synthesis of all those disparate elements, presenting it with his strongest batch of songs. Here, all of his tools are used to maximum effect, the Jeff Buckley vocals, the sweet whistle, the violin used in myriad ways and the obtuse way of looking at a melody. The only thing better is seeing him live, accompanying himself with a sequencer that allows for a jaw-dropping one-man band performance.
web site
Metacritic
"Heretics" MP3

The National – Boxer
As with Okkervil River (see below), the National followed a breakthrough album with something less expansively startling but probably more lasting. Boxer is a sublime album, one that actually seems to contract a bit from the sonic landscape of Alligator, refining that sound to create something more insular and self-contained. The focus is still on Matt Berninger’s vocals, his gruff tone helping one to realize what Tindersticks would sound like with a spur to the side, though the rest of the band is integral to the sound, its restrained playing conveying Berninger’s tales of hope giving way to despair. It’s the kind of album people will find two decades from now and wonder why it wasn’t huge at its time.
web site
Metacritic
"Fake Empire" MP3

Radiohead – In Rainbows
By the time the dust settled in the grand discussion about how we got to first hear In Rainbows, it seemed as if most people forgot to talk about what we were hearing. The what, of course, is Radiohead's seventh album, one that nicely synthesizes much of what came before it while still sounding fresh, a sort of "all the colors of the rainbow" sort of moment if Radiohead could ever be that obvious. It does continue the path of Hail to the Thief in its shedding of overt ambient and electronic overtones, as if Thom Yorke exorcised those tendencies -- for the time being -- with his 2006 solo debut, The Eraser. While Radiohead is never likely to make another OK Computer, for the first time since, it has made a record that seems to indicate that the band is similarly comfortable in its own skin, and that's a beautiful thing.
web site
Metacritic

Josh Ritter – The Historical Conquests of…
Ritter took some heat this year from people who actually criticized him for making an album that was too good, too polished and too poised. Sure, this lacks grit, a clearly self-conscious stab at making a great album. But guess what? Somewhere along the way he succeeded. He shares with Okkervil River's Will Sheff the title of year's best lyricist, and wedded those enthusiastically poetic words to some of the year's best melodies. The progression this young artist has made over his five albums is startling, and I'd imagine that we'll look back on this the way we do early work by... well who has made five increasingly great albums and not imploded? I'm sure Ritter will be criticized for the hubris of a long career, too.
web site
Metacritic
"To the Dogs or Whoever" MP3

Iron & Wine – The Shepherd’s Dog
Sam Beam’s earliest recordings were hushed, intimate affairs, and it would have been reasonable to expect that this was his best – and perhaps only – forum. Then he hit the road with Calexico and seemed reborn as a sort of low-key Dylan circa the Rolling Thunder Revue or Van Morrison of our time. The experimentation, energy and volume (both in terms of sound and the sheer amount of stuff on the tape) carried over the The Shepherd’s Dog, a disc that makes all that came before it seem like a black and white snapshot in contrast with its vivid 35mm Technicolor. Snapshots are nice and have their place, but this is Cinemascope and it only hints at where Beam might eventually land.
web site
Metacritic
"Innocent Bones" MP3

Okkervil River – The Stage Names
There’s no, um, fifth-year senior slump here. After breaking through big time with its fourth album, Black Sheep Boy, Okkervil River refines things and delivers with The Stage Name. Singer and songwriter Will Sheff continues to harness the wild caterwaul of his instrument, using it to great effect on these songs that ostensibly deal with rock music and performance. These are clever compositions, but never to the detriment of a consistent listen. From the number song name check of “Plus Ones” to the ingeniously organic sprouting of “Sloop John B” in “John Allyn Smith Sails,” this is a lovingly crafted disc that rewards repeat listens and shows that Okkervil River has reached its potential while leaving plenty of territory to explore.

web site
Metacritic
"Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe" MP3

Spoon – Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
Spoon is the only act on this list that didn’t better its last outing. In equaling it, however, it easily earned a spot in the Top 10. Since Girls Can Tell, Britt Daniel has been honing his music, stripping it down to the barest essentials on Kill the Moonlight before starting to rebuild things – very slowly – on Gimme Fiction and Ga⁵. No longer can he sneak up on listeners; he’s a known quantity who satisfies rather than stuns, getting by simply by offering another batch of great songs. The instrumentation on “The Underdog” shows where he can take things if he chooses, while “The Ghost of You Lingers” proves there is still a bit of territory left to explore.

web site
Metacritic
"The Underdog" video

Nick Lowe - At My Age
Lowe has aged quite gracefully, actually, adding this great disc to what is becoming the strongest part of his catalog. Leaving behind the broad jokes and pub-rock glory of his career peak, he has recast himself as an adult crooner who sings songs the coolest hipster wouldn’t be embarrassed to spin. Mixing covers rendered as lovingly as his own compositions with some of his own strongest songs to date, Lowe proves the fiction of one of the standouts from his last disc, “Lately I’ve Let Things Slide.” Rather, he has stepped up to deliver another gem.
web site
Metacritic
"The Club" stream

Glenn Mercer – Wheels in Motion
This disc defines the term “welcome return.” Its 11 songs sound current at the same time they feel perfectly aligned in spirit with Mercer's two-decade-old Feelies work. You feel right at home from the start, as the acoustic guitar strums and organic drums drive the song. Things ebb and flow nicely over the course of the next nine songs, as Mercer shows off his delicate guitar work and uncanny way of creating compelling melodies with a limited vocal range. By the time he reaches the end, with an inspired medley of George Harrison's "Within You, Without You" and "Love You To," it becomes clear that Mercer hasn't lost a step.
web site
TIRBD Monday Interview

The next 10:

11. Caribou – Andorra
12. Chuck Prophet – Soap and Water
13. Richard Thompson – Sweet Warrior
14. Bruce Springsteen – Magic
15. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible
16. Josh Rouse – Country Mouse City House
17. Thurston Moore – Trees Outside the Academy
18. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky
19. Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings – 100 Days, 100 Nights
20. Danny & Dusty – Cast-Iron Soul

Five more in no order:

Crowded House – Time on Earth
Band of Horses – Cease to Begin
Mark Olson – Salvation Blues
Seth Tiven – Solitude
Graham Parker – Don’t Tell Columbus

And now for the part where I list the albums I thought would be on the list above. First up, Steve Earle, whose Washington Square Serenade seemed great -- on paper. Shaking things up with a Dust Brother behind the board sounded like a great idea, but bells and whistles -- or in this case, a drum machine -- can't polish subpar songs. That and the fact that Earle spends so much time touting his new wife, Alison Moorer -- yes, Steve, she's a dish, but you're just this side of Dennis Kucinich in the "look, a babe married me, I'm not a weirdo" sweepstakes, and that's kind of embarrassing --add up to a pretty boring album from a guy who has been a lot of things in his career, but rarely that... The New Pornographers are clearly a talented bunch, and I admire anyone willing to mess with their formula, but Challengers, from its godawful cover art to the inclusion of three Dan Bejar songs -- if I want to hear Bejar, and I don't, I'd listen to Destroyer -- is simply an overly crafted, joyless exercise in style... The Shins made a good record with Wincing the Night Away, but not a great one. "Phantom Limb" is among the best songs of the year, but where past great songs were among peers, here it's head and shoulders above, and that's disappointing... How can we miss the White Stripes if they won't go away? As with the New Pornographers, I admire Jack White for continuing to mess with the formula, and Icky Thump certainly has its moments, but it feels more like an exercise than an album. Artists like Bruce Springsteen get in a rut where they try so hard to make a Bruce Springsteen album that they forget to make music they love; on the flip side, these younger artists sometimes seem to be trying so hard not to make a New Pornographers or White Stripes album that they forget to play to their strengths and embrace what got them here in the first place.

A few artists came close and are definitely in the rotation on any "best of '07" playlist around Chez TIRBD, but they just didn't make the cut. It was nice to get Neil Young back -- the Young that cares little about convention and is willing to throw something together because it feels good. Chrome Dreams II isn't a great Young album, but it's better than I'd have hoped for at this point... Ian Hunter made a strong return on Shrunken Heads, including the great track, "I Am What I Hated When I Was Young," that embraces his age and experience, rather than run away from it like most artists of his vintage seem wont to do... Speaking of which, it was nice to see John Fogerty blow the roof off on Revival, a not-so-coyly named return to form for the Creedence chief. "I Can't Take It No More," might not be "Fortunate Son," but it's still a blast of welcome vitriol... Dinosaur Jr. joined the "improbable reunion club" founded by the Pixies, and actually cranked out a decent album in the process. Beyond has some great moments, including a couple of Lou Barlow's strongest songs in recent memory.

Lastly, two young'uns laid the groundwork for nice long careers with some impressive debuts this year. Jason Isbell is no stranger to rock fans, having penned some of the strongest tracks on the Drive-by Truckers' four most recent albums, but stepping out solo for the first time with Sirens of the Ditch, he proved he can deliver more than two or three songs every couple of years... the Broken West also didn't technically debut this year, having released an EP as the Brokedown before signing to Merge and issuing the great I Can't Go On, I'll Go On this year. But that disc came completely out of left field for me, a fully-formed and catchy blast of pop that stayed in the player for quite a while this spring. It fades as the album progresses, which kept it off the list above, but with a few more songs like "Down in the Valley," they'll soon be in the upper reaches of lists like this one. Read more about the band and singer Ross Flournoy in this TIRBD Monday Interview.

Labels: criticism, lists, music

The New York Times issued its list of the 10 best books of the year today, and if good intentions count, I have four of them covered.

Truth told, I've read only one of the 10, Joshua Ferris' Then We Came to the End. I interviewed Ferris about his debut novel earlier this year. The Times and I aren't alone in our praise for the book; it was nominated for a National Book Award this fall.

The second of the fiction books I plan to read is Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke, which won the National Book Award for fiction this year. The book has been in my possession, but I let it go for the time being because I doubt I'll be able to carve out the time to dedicate to its 600+ pages anytime soon. Someday...

The two nonfiction books on the list that I hope to get to soon are Alex Ross' The Rest is Noise, an overview and analysis of music in the 20th century, and Little Heathens by Mildred Armstrong Kalish, a book that promises a look at the "Hard Times and High Spirits on an Iowa Farm During the Great Depression." My grandparents lived that life, and I'm curious to learn more about it.

The best-of season is now in full swing, and it will be interesting to see if any consensus is reached.

Labels: books, criticism

Let me be the first to say that Bruce Springsteen beat Sasha Frere-Jones to the punch by a few weeks and with a more concise (and certainly more rocking) testimony about the lack of rhythm in indie rock, and went further in his pursuit of a solution. Frere-Jones lit up the blogosphere with his New Yorker essay, "A Paler Shade of White," in which he wrote, "I’ve spent the past decade wondering why rock and roll, the most miscegenated popular music ever to have existed, underwent a racial re-sorting in the nineteen-nineties."

What he is getting at, taking 3,500 words to do so, is that some indie rock bands (read: Arcade Fire), don't have much if any soul to their sound, thus rendering them "white." Other bands (read: LCD Soundsystem) have some rhythm and swing to their sound, thus rendering them, according to Frere-Jones' word-of-the-day calendar vocabulary, the spawn of musical miscegenation. Frere-Jones wants to be able to dance at an indie rock show, it seems, but isn't willing to venture out to see anyone not already approved by -- mindblower coming -- Sasha Frere-Jones. While he heaps praise upon the angular and disjointed art rock of countless acts -- Arcade Fire among them, though the praise is less "heaped" than "grudging" in this case -- it seems he doesn't really like to listen to them and wishes there were other bands that had a bit of beat to their sound.

Even if one limits things to the hipster-approved indie band list curated virtually by Frere-Jones and his ilk, there is plenty of rhythm to be had, and, despite Frere-Jones' admonishments to the contrary, risks being taken. Spoon, Of Montreal, the Hold Steady, Joe Henry, Chuck Prophet... OK, those last couple aren't getting much ink for their fantastic new discs, but they certainly have everything Frere-Jones finds lacking elsewhere: "a trace of soul, blues, reggae, or funk." Ah, but they aren't as hip as Battles, so they don't count, do they, Sasha?

Though he isn't indie, Springsteen seems to be the elephant in the room here, because many acts these days draw inspiration from his music. Springsteen, original though he may sound to most, essentially found a way to bludgeon R'n'B bar band sounds into submission with his own wall of sound. On his fantastic new disc, Magic, he returns to that sound after nearly 25 years away from it, and offers what I see as pretty pointed commentary on this issue, even if his intent was miles away (and most likely self-referential). On the lead track, "Radio Nowhere," he sings:

I was trying to find my way home
But all I heard was a drone
Bouncing off a satellite
Crushing the last lone American night

A literal reading would suggest that Springsteen was in the car and could only find post-rock on his Sirius Radio (is there a Tortoise channel?). That wasn't what he wanted, and it was seriously harshing his mellow.

He goes on to ask "Is there anybody alive out there," and proclaims himself to be "just searching for a world with some soul," before getting to the true hook of the song where he shouts again and again, "I just want to hear some rhythm." Funny how Springsteen's take -- advantage though he might have thanks to the bass and drum (as opposed to bass 'n' drum) thump behind him -- is so much more soulful than Frere-Jones' pasty whine. He is willing to go back to the start of the recorded history of rock 'n' roll, singing that he is "searching for a Mystery Train," which could be both a shout out to the work of Greil Marcus and, more likely (tongue taken out of cheek here), a nod to the original popular musical miscegenator, Elvis Presley.

The Boss doesn't stop here, of course. As if on some spooky parallel with Frere-Jones, he opts to do more than pen a strongly worded letter to the editor about the situation and takes guitar in hand to help solve the perceived problem by bringing the aforementioned offenders, Arcade Fire, on stage with him to show them how to add a bit of backbeat to their sometimes fussy sound (If Frere-Jones can't dance to this, there's no help for him).

So while Frere-Jones admittedly makes some strong and interesting points about the fact that there is significantly less cross-pollination among musical genres -- missing a real culprit by ignoring the narrow focus of what has evolved to become a truly awful mainstream radio environment -- he over-generalizes to the extent that he undercuts his own argument at nearly every turn. Meanwhile, Springsteen puts his money where his mouth is, betting big on the 2 and the 4, offering a way out of the pale white and back into the dark.

Labels: criticism, music

Maybe now someone will bother to actually read it.

Angry parents in Cumberland, R.I., convinced officials there to ban an essay originally assigned in a high school class. The essay, "How to Kill a Boy That Nobody Likes," was written by author Will Clarke and is featured in the anthology When I Was a Loser, edited by John McNally.

The mother of a 14-year-old girl who had received the assignment led the charge. She claimed that Clarke's essay was pornographic, and said that it wasn't enough that the teacher quickly agreed that her daughter could complete the assignment by reading something else. She thus appointed herself the school district's morality police.

"I'm not willing to lower my morals to prove a point," she told the Pawtucket Times. "I feel it is my duty to ensure that not just my child is never handed this kind of vulgar material, but (that) your children never receive it as well."

I wonder if she or any of the other detractors has actually bothered to read the essay. Probably not, since most keep referring to it as a "story" as opposed to an essay, and never seem to mention details beyond the satiric title and a few key juicy bits. Thing is, the piece, in which Clarke tells of his early school days as someone mercilessly picked on before he applied a lesson about subliminal advertising and used it to win a life-changing student body office, is just the kind of thing high school students should be reading.

McNally has risen to the defense of his book and Clarke, pointing out that many classic literary works -- including those by Shakespeare, Chaucer and Salinger -- contain bawdy language and questionable passages that can be taken out of context to prove a similar point. Here's hoping that argument doesn't backfire with this populace that seems unable to understand irony, satire or literary allusion, driving them to move to ban the work of those and others right along with Clarke. The hope of course, is that just as with everything else people ban "for the good of the children," it will spur those kids to seek it out all the more.

Labels: books, criticism, Idiocracy

The capacity of people to misread satire is alive and well. Author John McNally reports on his blog that When I Was a Loser, a collection of essays about high school and adolescence that he edited, has raised the hackles of some overly literal parents in Rhode Island.

The essay in question, "How to Kill a Boy That Nobody Likes," might sound provocative and unfit for high school reading, but if you bother to read beyond the title, it becomes clear that it is exactly the kind of thing high school kids should be reading. In the essay, Will Clarke writes about a how, as a high school student, he realized that the language of marketing can change people's perceptions. He uses that new skill to run for class office, a move to "kill" the boy nobody likes, namely, himself (not-so-affectionally referred to as "Will-tard").

A teacher had assigned the essay, it seems, causing some parents to balk, calling the piece "pornographic," and demand that it be removed from the lesson.

While the reactions are perfect examples of knee-jerk political posturing at its best, it does give McNally's book some well-deserved exposure.

Clarke weighs in on his blog, offering tongue-in-cheek support to the would-be book banners: "String up that teacher and the principal, too. They're just trying to get them kids to love reading and who needs that? That might actually get them to thinking, and we all know where thinking leads you....straight to hell or Harvard."

Labels: books, criticism

A hearty congratulations to Joshua Ferris for his National Book Award nomination for his debut novel, Then We Came to the End. I don't want to take anything away from his efforts, of course, but I can't help but think his Monday Interview here in April helped to put him over the top. Of course, the other 19 nominees in the various categories somehow managed without the TIRBD MI imprimatur of cool, but that's beside the point. Should any of the other nominees want to increase their chances, feel free to get in touch and I'll see what I can do.

FICTION

Mischa Berlinski, Fieldwork (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
Lydia Davis, Varieties of Disturbance (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
Joshua Ferris, Then We Came to the End (Little, Brown & Company)
Denis Johnson, Tree of Smoke (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
Jim Shepard, Like You’d Understand, Anyway (Alfred A. Knopf)

Fiction judges: Francine Prose (chair), Andrew Sean Greer, Walter Kirn, David Means and Joy Williams

NONFICTION

Edwidge Danticat, Brother, I’m Dying (Alfred A. Knopf)
Christopher Hitchens, God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything (Twelve/Hachette Book Group USA)
Woody Holton, Unruly Americans and the Origins of the Constitution (Hill and Wang/Farrar, Straus and Giroux)
Arnold Rampersad, Ralph Ellison: A Biography (Alfred A. Knopf)
Tim Weiner, Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA (Doubleday)

Nonfiction judges: David Shields (chair), Deborah Blum, Caroline Elkins, Annette Gordon-Reed and James Shapiro

POETRY

Linda Gregerson, Magnetic North (Houghton Mifflin Co.)
Robert Hass, Time and Materials (Ecco/HarperCollins)
David Kirby, The House on Boulevard St. (Louisiana State University Press)
Stanley Plumly, Old Heart (W.W. Norton & Co.)
Ellen Bryant Voigt, Messenger: New and Selected Poems 1976-2006 (W.W. Norton & Co.)

Poetry Judges: Charles Simic (chair), Linda Bierds, David St. John, Vijay Seshadri and Natasha Trethewey

YOUNG PEOPLE'S LITERATURE

Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (Little, Brown & Co.)
Kathleen Duey, Skin Hunger: A Resurrection of Magic, Book One (Atheneum Books for Young Readers)
M. Sindy Felin, Touching Snow (Atheneum Books for Young Readers)
Brian Selznick, The Invention of Hugo Cabret (Scholastic Press)
Sara Zarr, Story of a Girl (Little, Brown & Co.)

Young People’s Literature Judges: Elizabeth Partridge (chair),
Pete Hautman, James Howe, Patricia McCormick and Scott Westerfeld

Labels: books, criticism

If a good novel based on rock 'n' roll has been written, I've yet to read it. That includes Jonathan Lethem's latest, You Don't Love Me Yet, a slim volume that tells the tale of an unnamed alt-rock band and the troubles its four members undergo. I was hesitant to dive in, despite being a fan of Lethem's work. The book earned some fairly savage reviews and I've had no luck with rock novels in the past. Reading Lethem's book, I think I've finally figured out why.

Music is something that must be experienced to be appreciated. That might seem obvious, but bear me out. Writing about a song that no one has heard is nearly impossible. You can describe things as sounding a certain way, but even then you usually fall on the crutch of comparing it with other bands and other songs. Plus, the performance of music simply isn't that interesting. That's why the light show was invented. People playing music, or worse, rehearsing, aren't really doing anything. It's like writing about someone doing their taxes or washing the dishes. Long ago in my college days, I proposed to some friends in a touring band that I would ride along on a weekend of shows and play roadie, writing about the results. They essentially told me that I could sit in a small room with the windows and doors closed so that it became unbearably stuffy and smelly, then sit around for a while longer, then carry some heavy boxes around, then eat bad food, then hear live music for about an hour, and then go back in the room before falling asleep on the floor. That closely approximates riding in a band all day, loading in, playing and then doing it all over again, and that's why rock bands simply aren't good subjects for a novel.

Related to that is the fact that rock lyrics and song titles often sound ridiculous in print. It's difficult to divorce the words and titles of your favorite songs from the music and experience of listening, but try to do so and you'll see what I mean. One of my all-time favorite songs is R.E.M.'s "Fall on Me," and that title and the songs lyrics -- regardless of how poignant lines like " Feathers hit the ground before the weight can leave the air" might sound -- don't do much without the music and everything associated with hearing the song again and again.

So when someone like Lethem pens a passage like this:

"They hadn't practiced in 10 days. So, the four shrugged halfway through their set list: 'Shitty Citizen,' 'Temporary Feeling,' 'The Houseguest,' and 'Hell is for Buildings.' Then worked a few times over the ending to 'Canary in a Coke Machine,' struggling with the elusive full-stop timing."

It only sounds silly. The reader knows there is no song called "Canary in a Coke Machine," so there is no "elusive full-stop timing" with which to struggle. That might not seem fair; there is no Tourette's-afflicted private eye as depicted in Lethem's Motherless Brooklyn, either, but that book is fantastic whereas this one falls flat. What gives?

Again, it's the fact that discussion of music must be grounded in actual music. It is perhaps the only art form to suffer such fate. Novelists can paint a non-existent picture, recreate a made-up dance or direct a fictional scene, because all of these things are visual. They cannot, except only in the most general, unsatisfying terms, adequately describe music that does not exist. Or rather, no one has yet to my knowledge.

Further proof comes from the fact that the best so-called rock novels are written about fictional fans who like real music. Nick Hornby's High Fidelity is an oft-cited example. Hornby's characters, while involved with bands, listen to and talk about real songs. The reader either already knows this music or can seek it out. Either way, the reference point is tangible.

Lethem is far from alone. Bad rock novels seem a rite of passage, everyone from the wildly talented Don DeLillo (Great Jones Street) to Jeff Gomez on the other end of the spectrum (his Our Noise, a look at mid-90s indie rock, was one of the worst novels I've read, rock or otherwise) has tried and failed. It's like an unavoidable challenge that any and all music-loving novelists must attempt. Who knows; maybe one day someone will get it right. Believe me, as a fan who keeps coming back for more punishment, I'd love to be wrong.

Labels: books, criticism, music

I had every expectation of logging on tonight to post a glowing review of last night's Crowded House concert at the House of Blues in Chicago. Instead, I sit here not even 24 hours later with no real recollection of the show. No, I didn't imbibe too much, I simply attended a show at the worst venue I've ever had the misfortune to visit. As such, I was unable to see, the sound was wretched and the venue seemed to take every opportunity to make sure the show was not enjoyable. So much for wish fulfillment.

Doors opened at 7:30 p.m., Crowded House went on at 11 p.m. There were two openers that I had no real interest in seeing (no slight intended; I just couldn't imagine standing for 6 hours straight while crammed shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of sweaty Chicagoans). We arrived at 10:30 p.m., found the sold-out crowd completely jammed into every possible corner, so settled in at the back for the show. The venue is set up in such a way that there is a big open space in front of the stage, then everything else is under the low overhang caused by the balcony. The effect was one of standing in a garage with about 100 people I didn't know (and grew not to like) while watching other people far away inside a house watch a Crowded House DVD on a TV with blown speakers. It was impossible to get into the show. Though the band seemed to play marvelously (it looked as such on the TV monitors sprinkled throughout the room which provided the only proof I had that bassist Nick Seymour was performing; the multiple cameras they used to shoot the show conspired with gigantic faux classic pillars to block more than half of the stage from view. There was rumor of a webcast being shot, but I can find absolutely no proof of this. If anyone knows whether this is true or not, I'd love to hear.) I simply couldn't make myself feel like I was even at the concert that others seemed to be enjoying.

Suffice to say that the House of Blues could create a time machine, book a show featuring 1984-vintage R.E.M., Replacements and Minutemen (hell, throw in late era Split Enz while we're at it) for a free show, and I wouldn't walk across the street to attend. I don't know if he even has anything to do with this cheesy tourist-trap of a club any more but I feel like Dan Ackroyd owes me money, a sum I'd gladly trade for the chance to give him (or anyone else involved in this shitty, shitty place) a swift kick in the nuts.

The good news is that Crowded House seems to be doing well with its new record and tour. Perhaps I'll get another chance to finally see them.

Labels: criticism, music

Mark Jude Poirier quotes Susan Sontag in the introduction to a new collection of short fiction, The Worst Years of Your Life, and neatly states the reason why adolescence is such a heavily mined topic for fiction in the process: "The best emotions to write out of are anger and fear or dread."

As he goes on to say, the "awkward years" of 11 to 15 are those where these feelings are at their peak. Looking back on those years has allowed scores of writers to navigate emotional mine fields with the result being a lot of great short stories and novels.

Poirier sensed this and put together this anthology, which collects 20 previously published stories from writers like George Saunders, John Barth, Jim Shepard, A.M. Homes and Julie Orringer. It's a fine selection, but I was disappointed to learn that everything here has already seen print. I love (and sometimes love/hate) Saunders' work, and was excited at the prospect of a new story. Instead, I'm treated to "Bohemians," a good story from a 2004 New Yorker. As a matter of fact, though I would consider myself moderately well read at best, I've already read five or six of the stories in the collection. It's interesting to see them all together and to think about each of them in the larger context of adolescent angst, but even a few new stories would certainly have sweetened the pot.

Adolescence is always a hot topic for writers, as discussed above, but now seems to be a time particularly suited to the over-the-shoulder glance at the past. Perhaps it's simply a sign of the times, as those of us easing into middle age look back at the relative safe haven of our teens. While those in Poirier's book looked back fictionally, a recent collection edited by writer John McNally finds 25 writers weighing in on their own high school years with heartbreakingly touching and funny essays. When I Was a Loser will conjure memories for everyone, be they geeks, jocks, nerds, stoners, cool kids or something in between.

While both collections are great reading, I'll give the edge to McNally's simply for the fact that it features new and original work. Poirier's book is certainly worthy competition, for it serves as a nice sampler, allowing people to check out writers they've heard of but never read (something I plan to dive in and use it for immediately).

Labels: books, criticism

A lot of ink has been spilled in the debate about whether genre fiction and literary fiction are mutually exclusive terms. High-brow types like to relegate mystery and crime fiction to the commercially popular-criticially reviled ghetto, while writers of mysteries and their fans decry the second-class citizenship accorded works that focus more on plot than character.

John Banville's pseudonymous novel, Christine Falls, offered the opportunity for those on both sides to chime in. Having finally gotten around to reading the book, I can safely say it seemed more sound and fury signifying nothing to me than anything resembling a groundbreaking work. It was a fairly plodding, at times boring stab at a thriller from a writer whose books are often characterized as being about nothing. It's going to take more than writing under the name Benjamin Black and adding a bit of a plot to make Banville a mystery writer worth reading.

The book is set in 1950s Ireland and Boston, and tells the tale of a Catholic society that takes babies from disadvantaged Irish families and places them with families in Boston. The plot is more nefarious, of course, but suffice to say that's the long and short of it. Banville's protagonist is Quirke Griffin, the adopted son of a wealthy Irish family. Quirke is a pathologist, and he comes across the woman who gives the book its name after she's already dead, finding her on a slab in his office. Malachy Griffin, his brother of sorts and the hospital's top obstetrician, is somehow involved, and Quirke's attempt to unravel things leads him to uncover the larger plans and get himself and others into a great deal of trouble in the process.

While Banville is clearly a gifted writer -- his descriptions of people and places are at times breathtaking -- his attempt at mimicking the verbal sleights and shadows of the best thrillers, never mind the pace, show just how difficult it is to write a gripping pageturner. Sure, the characterizations in many genre novels pale in comparison to the richly drawn, three-dimension people who populate literary fiction. But Banville proves that the plotting and pacing of such books can't hold a candle to that of even middling mystery novels. Whether Banville's folly was his way of showing how easy it is to write such books is for him to say. If so, he failed.

That's not to say the book isn't entertaining in spots, and it's subject is one ripe for further exploration. But in terms of writing a book that bridges the gap between literary and genre fiction, many others have already accomplished what it seems Banville set out to do: write a compelling novel with real characters that happens to have a mystery at its core. Banville would do well to read the work of Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, George Pelecanos or Ian Rankin to get an idea of how this should be done. He promises further adventures for Quirke, though I'll be hesitant to tag along. Reading this did make me move Banville's Booker-winning The Sea to the top of my to-be-read list. Without the need to jam a plot into his story, I'm sure Banville's prose is rewarding.

Labels: crime fiction, criticism

There's was an interesting piece in the New York Times on Sunday that essentially calls 1997 ground zero for the woes the music industry has faced for the past decade. In the piece, David Browne calls that year "the start of the last golden era of pop (if not its final one) and, more important, the beginning of the end of the music business as we knew it." He's certainly right, and he's not the only one to compare chart-topping sales figures from that year with this one. The top selling disc of the past year wouldn't have made the top 10 in 1997, for example.

His analysis, however, seems off balance. In passing out blame, he seems to give record label mergers and the rise of MP3s the same weight as the shift from career artists with something to say to look-oriented one-hit wonders with no message. While the former two factors contributed to the industry's fall, it was the latter greedy cash-grab that is most to blame. It can look to outside factors, but the music industry shot itself in the foot be looking at short-term gains to the detriment of long-term potential. Boy bands by their nature won't ever enjoy long careers. Cute doesn't last, and it's creepy to think of subsequent generations of teenaged girls swooning over increasingly grizzled pinup lads as they move into their 40s. Meanwhile, the potential U2s and R.E.M.s that could generate consistent sales over the long haul are cast aside because they don't make the cover of Tiger Beat.

Browne does make a good point at the close of his piece, writing that for most consumers, things have improved since 1997. I think he would be better to say "discerning consumers," as the mainstream, which still buys the overwhelming majority of music-related products probably doesn't take advantage of the benefits he outlines, but they are there: Downloading and cheap reproduction have democratized the marketplace to the extent that anyone has the opportunity to get their music out the masses.

Labels: criticism, music

Anyone who has ever disagreed with a critic will like the idea behind the cover feature in the latest issue of Time Out New York. The feature, "Critiquing the Critics," puts the work of New York-based critics in eight disciplines up for review.

According to the piece, they developed a grading scale in five categories - knowledge, style, taste, accessibility and influence - and then asked artists, authors, publicists and others to weigh in using that system. They looked at critics of art, books, dance, film, food, music, classical music and theater.

Sasha Frere-Jones with the New Yorker topped the music list; The panelists rightly dock Frere-Jones for his hipster tendencies, which can be a detriment when writing about artists he discovers when he "goes out of his way to discover new music." Another commenter says "I often disagree with his picks, but generally look forward to reading him," which pretty well describes my own relationship with his work. Kelefa Sanneh with the New York Times and Jody Rosen with Slate round out the top three.

John Leonard with Harper's led the book list. John Updike came in at no. 2 on the list for his work in the New Yorker and The New York Review of Books, while Salon's Laura Miller was no. 3.

It's a great idea; one that could keep critics on their toes. It would be bad for critics to worry too much about what the public thinks of their work as it would likely affect what they do and temper their views, but a bit of accountability is never a bad thing.

Labels: books, criticism, music

This is the time of year for journalistic fluff, but even in a season of lowered expectations the made-up huff over bibliographies in novels must surely rank among the silliest stories to make print. In an article in last week's New York Times, Julie Bosman asks writers and critics about the lengthly bibliography at the back of Norman Mailer's new novel, The Castle in the Forest. No warning bells immediately go off at that premise, as the presence of a bibliography in a novel is somewhat rare.

The reactions she elicits, however, are comical. James Wood, a critic for the New Republic, calls it "terribly off-putting.” It is posturing, it seems, a bit of self-congratulation for the legwork involved in researching a novel. "We expect authors to do that work," he adds, "and I don’t see why we should praise them for that work. And I don’t see why they should praise themselves for it."

Two things come to mind. First, no one need read a bibliography if its mere presence truly offends. Second, couldn't such a list actually be helpful to readers who want to further explore the ideas, concepts or history involved in the fiction? I for one think it's great to see where certain ideas might spring from, and while I rarely follow up, it's comforting to know I can if ever so compelled. Sure, some of these lists might seem a little self-indulgent, particularly when they list dozens and dozens of sources. But rather than look for offense, why not see these as one more way a novelist can connect with a reader? It isn't getting any easier to do so, and something like this, which in no way compromises the book itself, would seem to be a nice tool to add to that effort.

Michael Chabon weighed in with a subsequent letter to the editor offering another possible reason for such lists: to acknowledge. "If there is some kind of old-fashioned virtue in concealing one’s debt to and gratitude for the hard work of others, it’s difficult for me to see where it lies," he writes.

Labels: books, criticism